


travelling by ambulance

by sorrydearie



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, also like hella sad, this is some abstract bs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3667269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrydearie/pseuds/sorrydearie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is the fire, the unrelenting night, the storm in the heart of the sun. And Eren can't help but drown in the flames licking at his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	travelling by ambulance

His kisses are like fire.

It burns you in the sweetest of ways, and you revel in the irony of how something so deadly is a thing you can’t resist. So you drown. Drown in his endless touches, the way his fingertips glide over your hipbones to bring you closer, and the way his mouth covers yours and is endlessly biting, kissing, tasting every part of you like you will disappear into smoke the moment he stops. And you don’t deny that you want this, you want his touch, you want to fall into him completely, you want him to be yours and that scares you, because tomorrow he will burn you and leave. He will turn your hipbones into ash and leave your mouth with the taste of charred and burnt promises whispered against your skin. Yet you don’t want him to stop burning you, and that scares you.

He stops to look at you, and his eyes find yours, and you convince yourself that you always knew it would end up like this. That you would always end up craving his touch, and wanting to wake up to him kissing your nape, and wanting to be held like he loved you and you were the only thing he wanted to melt in.

(You realize you are a fire as well, and you burnt his unflinching soul that tasted of metal and a sad longing.)

He pulls your head down, and he is kissing every part of it, his lips don’t stop brushing over the skin, over and over again, and you wrap your arms around him, because you feel lighter when he’s taking care of you like you’re worth the touch, you’re worth the extra mile. He acts like you’re the one in the million, and he kisses you like he can’t stop drowning in you, and like he doesn't hate the chlorine filled burn in his lungs that will slowly kill him, intimately, eyes glassy in the water, still watching you with a strange look in his eyes. He wants to drown in the arms of his sweetest curse, and you don’t deny his suicide.

You don’t make a sound, as his hands flicker downwards, moving alongside every arch of your spine and every curve of your chest, stopping at the organ that keeps you alive, and drawing small circles- as if silently thanking it for keeping you long enough to meet him, down in a lightless tunnel- where you became his light. What you do instead, is map out his body, because you remember that somewhere down the line of endless fucks and intimate lovemaking, you will forget it, and you memorise his body again, and again, till you forget it when you look into his eyes.

And you’re dying. Breathing isn’t easy, as his carbon dioxide fills your lungs, and you bury your limbs in between the sheet and his legs, and you edge closer to pull him as close as he can get, till you both are one, and you don’t deny that you want him to melt as he whispers your name like you are the sun and he is the asteroid that revolves around it, once touching too close to end up floating far away.

And you don’t mind dying, the morbid thought crosses your mind too often, but you don’t become upset. (you’re hooked up on the IV lines in the small stretcher in the ambulance anyway.)

With your hands you remove his mask; the crease in his forehead, the barrier he holds between him and the world, and you wash away his last wall with the smell of your cologne, lingering in the air, intoxicating his soul. He smiles as he kisses your neck, your throat, your collar bone. your breath hitches with the feel of how his lips ignite a fire, and that fire rises up your throat in low moans and gasps.

You remember how he first kissed you, how his fingers trailed down your cheeks and latched themselves onto your chestnut coloured locks, and you remember how you fell in love with him, as he lay curled up in your lap, eyes flickering with the glow of the nightlight, and you felt like he wanted you, as you wanted him. But there was no name to the way you burnt with him around- you knew it wasn't love; this feeling of falling into an endless pit, a haze of lust and longing and craving, grabbing onto the nearest clothing material and tugging it off his body, searing the naked flesh with open mouthed kisses and listening to him, whispering how much he loves you.

You map out his scars; the ones he hides from everyone but you, the ones on his back, and the one above his left hip, the one right above his heart, the one right where his lips are (where you scarred him with your kiss), and he melts again, like you are fire and he is metal, and like you are the pyre and he is the body in which it burns, but he whispers and tells you to keep going, and you continue mapping out his skin, memorising the contours of his torso with burnt fingers.

He never complains over the uneven, ugly flesh of yours. you expect him to say fuck it, fuck off, and leave; but he doesn’t. He reaches the bottom of your heart, broken and bruised, collateral damage in the fire that blazed through your house and took away things that you loved most, and he touches it with his kind words and loving gazes.  
(You don’t know how you found someone like him.)

Why he continues to hold you; like he loves you, like this is love; is beyond your compatibility, but you don’t refuse the embrace. Instead, you cool slowly, like the wax halfway down the candle, to melt as easily as the wax next to the wick that is alight.

You are completely his. and that scares you. Because you will melt to cool, then melt again when he whispers how perfect you are above your hipbone.

And when you look over to your right, you will see his body, lying on a similar stretcher, a mask placed over his mouth, connected to a tank filled to the brim with concentrated oxygen (and you nod because that’s wise, he had been breathing in too much carbon dioxide anyway.) and you smile drowsily, under the paralysing sense of pain, because even in death, you both are tied together. What do they say? The red string of fate? And you think maybe you’re in a state of psychosis when you say that you see the invisible threads of destiny, a thin, long chain from his limp finger to yours. (Your hand inches forward to hold his.)

And the sirens blare in our ears, and we wish we were whisked away to somewhere we could heal, but you don’t recover when you burn your burnt fingers, over and over again. The tissue heals to break again, but the blood is transparent when it's mixed with his, and you take a hold of his arms and cry out in pleasure when he takes you, like you are his, like you are everything to him. (And he pulls out to push back in, faster, his arms a death grip on the mattress beside you, your nails scratching his back, body arching off the bed.) What you see instead is the stars behind your eyelids, falling unceremoniously into the dark waters lapping against the shore of thoughts, and you are a building built too close to the beach- and you tumble down into the waters, filled with light and love and longing, because your foundation was too weak, and the architect never planned the building to be built near the sea, but the builder rooted the twenty storey soul with the bricks and concrete that would only last a decade. (The waters soaked every crevice of the foundation.)

Your voice hitches when you come undone, and he follows through with his. Then you lay, wasted and loved, with him, a flimsy sheet between the both of you. And your fingers card in his hair, as his breathing evens out slowly, and you think- how much longer until you break? And how much longer till you break him?

(He is the fire, the unrelenting night, the storm in the heart of the sun.)

(And even though he is rage, you are fury, and in the end you will always eat away at him, slowly, intimately, till the pain throbs to a numbness, a static noise in his head.)

And you wonder, as he kisses you as an apology for the fight you had two days ago (another kiss for when he said you meant nothing to him) (another for when he broke down in your arms, tasting of stale alcohol and cigarettes), how long till the neighbours call the paramedics? Till the paramedics find the bodies, still naked, still smiling as if they didn't just fall in the grasps of death. Till the sounds of the sirens don't increase in pitch, or amplitude, and the frequency is still the same, because as you learnt in physics a decade earlier; you are stationary, as is the sound source, and you both are moving through time together.

You will always laugh, because you found his aching soul pleasant down at the small coffee shop he sat in, and that he found comfort in both of your enclosed hands. And he arrests your heart, but you knew that from the start.

And you are selfish, you don't want to stop, and you beg the raven haired paramedic wearing a red scarf around her neck to put you on life support, because you are ready to throw away everything for one taste of him. (You never want it to stop.)

You throw away these thoughts when he kisses you one more time, as if sealing the deal on your soul- the one entwined with his, the one utterly joined to his.  
He asks you to hold him, you don’t deny his last wish.

Tomorrow on the news, spoken by the brunette wearing glasses that look like goggles, accompanied with the blond man with striking blue eyes, they will say how he died with blood bubbling up his throat, and you will only whisper that the blood is yours as well.

It won’t be a case of homicide, no lawyers will be called, no police will ask questions.

In the end; both of you are just passengers, travelling by ambulance.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song 'travelling by ambulance' by monarchy  
> ok idk what i wrote but it has a lot of inferred meaning going on  
> i like to call this abstract angst  
> comment, kudos perhaps?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [devolving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3781054) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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